Legato
by Katja1
Summary: Legato (It.): Bound together. Also: legacy. AU, SS, SI. Complete.
1. you look like rain

Disclaimer: This is now thoroughly AU, which was perhaps always inevitable. The chapter titles are all from Morphine songs I don't own; I also don't own the characters I'm playing with here, obviously.   
  
* * *  
  
1. "I can tell you taste like the sky, because you look like rain."  
  
He has always hated the heat, and so it is that he finds himself cursing his employer's name, not for the first time. It's 4am, and he's sitting in a rental car with the windows rolled down and the engine off, watching a door like it's a pot stubbornly refusing to boil.   
  
Perhaps it would be better to simply break in and sit inside, let the guy walk in and find him sitting there in the dark. On the other hand, the air conditioner probably wouldn't be on if the guy wasn't home, so it wouldn't be much of an improvement. But maybe the darkness would be a reprieve; as unlikely as that prospect was, anything would be better than strangling in this stagnant, humid air. He grabs the box from the passenger seat and locks the door before stalking across the street--an empty gesture, considering that no one is around to see.   
  
Getting in without leaving evidence isn't a problem. He hadn't anticipated that it would be.   
  
"Shit," a familiar voice says from somewhere in the darkness.  
  
He remains silent and still, hoping she's merely stubbed a toe.  
  
"I can see you," she says. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"What are you doing here?" he repeats, setting his box on what seems to be a nearby table, preparing to remove its contents.  
  
"Waiting for Dr. Miratomi."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"What do you want him for?"  
  
"How did you get in here? I've been watching the front all night."  
  
"Back window. You're crazy if you think I'm going to let you kill him."  
  
"I don't want to kill him."  
  
"You can't take him with you."  
  
"Well, you're not taking him with you, either."  
  
"I need-" she pauses abruptly, and both are quiet as a key turns in the lock. The man sings loudly, off-key, to himself: "She has a little stutter, she yells, t-top floor-"  
  
Dr. Henry Miratomi hits the wood floor with a hard thud before he even has time to register that a dart is lodged in his neck.  
  
"Tell me what you want him for," Sark says calmly.  
  
"You first," Sydney counters.  
  
"Help me get him to the car, then."  
  
"You're not taking him with you," she repeats.  
  
"Okay," he shrugs, grasping the man around his ankles and dragging him toward the door. "Don't help."  
  
Sydney watches Dr. Miratomi's head glide across the smooth floor, and remembers the concrete stairs that lead to his front door. "All right, I'll help," she amends, grabbing his limp arms.  
  
Later she will be unable to recount exactly how she ended up sitting in the passenger seat of his car, after Miratomi's body is safely stashed in the trunk, no witnesses. She thinks Sark might have said: "Get in. It's late. We'll deal with who takes him where later." There she is, watching him start the engine, watching the streetlights pass overhead one after the other, and she feels suddenly that she must have agreed to something at some point, but she can't quite be sure what it was.   
  
"Relax," he says, and smiles at her.   
  
And she still hates him, but she does.  
  
She certainly doesn't trust him enough to sleep, although her eyes burn. Instead she says, "Why do you stay with her?"  
  
No response.  
  
"Aren't you a little old to be her errand boy?"  
  
"You aren't going to convert me to the side of all that is pure and good. I don't know why you even try."  
  
She lets out an exasperated sigh. "You know what? Neither do I."  
  
They don't talk for another hour.  
  
"I'm sorry," she says. "That was rude." She waits for a response, and when there is none: "It's been so long."   
  
"A year," he says. He does not say: exactly 317 days have passed since you killed Allison Doren, and I would feel perfectly justified in taking your life now in retribution, but that isn't what I was ordered to do. "Where have you been? We've wondered."  
  
"I woke up in a hospital in London after that night I almost died."  
  
That night you should have died, he mentally amends.  
  
"After they released me, about a month had passed. I came home, and there was nothing left. Will left. Francie was dead. My father was still in Sloane's clutches; it wasn't until later that I found out it was by choice. So I left, too. I've been working on my own, trying to track my mother down, find out what she was talking about that last night I saw her. Find out if she was the one who saved my life, although I doubt it, and if she was--"   
  
"She was," he says indifferently.  
  
"If she was, I'm sure she had an agenda."  
  
She omitted Agent Vaughn from her explanation; he decides against asking. "It must have been a shock, to come home and find your father had defected to the dark side."  
  
"He thought I was dead."  
  
"Does he know you aren't?"  
  
"I don't know," she shrugs. "So you are still working for her?"  
  
"With."  
  
She cracks a smile. "Right. Sorry."  
  
"Easy mistake to make," he relents, cracking a smile of his own.  
  
She pauses. "What does she want from Miratomi?"  
  
"She hasn't told me," he lies. "You're working for yourself. What do you want from him?"  
  
Sydney stares out the window; the sun is coming up over the skyline of a city she's never visited before. "He's a Rambaldi scholar. I was hoping he could tell me what Sloane has been up to--what my father's been up to."  
  
"That's what she wants, too." Sort of.  
  
"I don't want to see her, if that's where you're going."  
  
"You said you were trying to track her down." He is careful to sound disinterested.  
  
"I was. I am. But I'm not ready for that yet."  
  
"I'll let you out wherever you want."  
  
"Not without Dr. Miratomi." She is resolute.  
  
"Then I guess you'd better get ready to see her." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye; her face darkens as she considers her options: overpower him, get out without Miratomi, or surrender. She apparently chooses the third choice, making no move to achieve either the first or second. Outside, grey storm clouds are already overtaking the morning sun, as the humid air threatens to burst. 


	2. like a mirror

2. "I'm like a mirror; I'm nothing till you look at me."   
  
Sydney attempts to insist on waiting in the car like a stubborn child when they first arrive. He finds this terribly amusing. She does everything but fold her arms across her chest and scowl.   
  
"You must come in," he offers reasonably, and it is almost easy to forget her sins when she stares right back at him and replies, "I won't." Not 'I can't,' of course, because that would be giving too much away. 'I won't.' It's cute, in a way.   
  
He does not point out that she has become to him what Irina is to her, and look at how nicely he has been able to get along with her so far. "You must," he says instead, "Because I'm taking your precious scholar inside, whether you're with us or not. If you stay here, you'll never know what he has to say."  
  
With that, he closes the car door and is in the process of locking it when the passenger door swings open and she steps out without another word.  
  
Irina is not surprised that he has brought her daughter along. "It's good to see you, Sydney."  
  
Sydney glares at Sark. "I should have known."  
  
"Yes, you probably should have," he observes neutrally.   
  
"I'm glad you're here," Irina continues. "I need your help."  
  
"What makes you think--" Her tone is already accusatory and she's only been in her mother's company for two minutes.  
  
"Just listen," Irina interrupts. "I need you to retrieve your father. You're the only one who can get through to him now."  
  
"What do you want with him?"   
  
"I don't want anything from him."  
  
"I don't believe that."  
  
"I'm concerned for his welfare. Sloane's off the deep end. If your father says one wrong word, it will be the end of their partnership."  
  
"Why do you suddenly care what happens to him? Does he figure into your prophecy somehow, too?"  
  
"Sydney," she replies wearily, as though this is a discussion they have had too many times. "I've always cared."  
  
Sydney's mouth opens like she's going to say something, but closes like she's thought better of it.  
  
"Dr. Miratomi will be able to tell us where they are now, when he awakens."  
  
"And then?"  
  
"Then I'm hoping you'll go there and bring him back."  
  
"If I don't?"  
  
"If you don't," Irina sighs, "I'll have to come up with an alternate plan, won't I?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'll have to think about it," Sydney finally replies.  
  
Irina nods, as if this were the best she could have hoped for. "You'll have until Dr. Miratomi awakens." She glances at Sark, who drags Miratomi's body down a nearby hallway, heaving him into an empty bedroom.  
  
"Now you," he says to Sydney, who has followed him rather than to remain alone in her mother's company. He leads her further down the hall, to another guest room.   
  
She leans her head against the doorway and addresses his retreating form. "Is she on the level?"  
  
He pauses but does not turn around. "It's possible."  
  
"Why would she go to this trouble? What does Sloane have that she wants?"  
  
"Your father."  
  
"I don't believe that's all there is to it."  
  
He shrugs.   
  
"She doesn't care about him. She never has. If she did--"  
  
"Please, don't rehash your family history. I'm as familiar with the story as you are." The words sound more irritable than he'd intended.  
  
"It just doesn't make sense."  
  
"Your mother's motivations are hers to understand, and mine to merely accept, usually sight unseen. What you think about them is your business," he concludes, "but if it means anything, I'm fairly certain she's genuinely concerned about your father."  
  
"It doesn't make sense," she repeats, more to herself than to him.  
  
"Get some sleep," he advises, finally turning to face her. "We'll be waiting for your answer."   
  
It is several hours later when she wanders down the hallway again, looking no more rested than she had before; she apparently still does not trust them enough to fall asleep in their presence. His mouth curves into an involuntary smile as he glances up from the newspaper. Her answer is evident before she even begins to speak.  
  
"I'm glad you've decided to help," he says.  
  
She doesn't look pleased by his perceptiveness, merely annoyed. "As long as she has one thing straight: I'm not 'helping' her, and I'm certainly not working for her."  
  
"We understand."  
  
"Make sure she does. My only interest here is finding my father and bringing him home."  
  
"That is our sole interest as well."   
  
'Our.' 'We.' She is amused by his insistence that her mother might actually consider him an equal rather than a subordinate. It's cute, in a way.  
  
"Yeah," she says.  
  
"Why don't you tell her yourself?" He nods toward the front door. "She's just outside."  
  
Sydney hesitates, as he knew she would; that might have even been the reason he proposed it, to puncture her bravado.  
  
"No," he says. "You'd rather I communicate your concerns."  
  
She takes a deep breath, raises her shoulders. "I'll do it." This is intended to mean: I'm not afraid of her. Really.  
  
"Good."  
  
She advances toward the front door. A pause. She turns around.  
  
"I've decided you can tell her."  
  
He really does try not to laugh.  
  
She resists the urge to grin back and tell him to shut up. This isn't that kind of situation. She must keep her cool.  
  
"Tell me what?" Irina asks from behind her, looking over the two of them bemusedly, as if she is pleased they seem to be getting along.  
  
"Oh." Sydney turns to face her. "I was about to tell you that I've decided to do what you've asked of me. But I wanted to make sure it was clear that I'm not working for you."  
  
"No. I didn't imagine you would be." Irina places a hand on her daughter's shoulder and pretends not to notice when she flinches. "Thank you, Sydney."  
  
"I'm not doing it for you," she says through gritted teeth.  
  
"Neither am I."  
  
And then she's gone again, leaving Sydney with one more half-finished conversation to file away in her memory under her mother's name.   
  
"I'm impressed," Sark notes. "I didn't think you had it in you."  
  
She decides against admitting that she also had her doubts, revealing one more weakness to the man who remains her adversary, even if she finds herself reluctantly working in league with him now, sort of. Instead, Sydney follows in her mother's footsteps for perhaps the first time: she smiles enigmatically and disappears. 


	3. i'm yours, you're mine

3. "I hear your smile. Fast as light. Two hundred miles."  
  
Dr. Henry Miratomi has never heard of Milo Rambaldi.  
  
He is not a professor, nor a scholar. He is a research scientist whose work garnered him some brief notoriety in certain academic circles several years ago. Without explanation, he suddenly ceased his research for reasons that were never explained to anyone, and faded once more into obscurity, his short-lived fame not even consequential enough to land him a mention in a college textbook.   
  
Henry vaguely remembers a woman with long brown hair and a voice that could convince a man to run himself through with a sword if that's what it took to keep her talking to him.   
  
He remembers betrayal.  
  
That was before the haze set in. He doesn't think of her most days, nor does he ever really try to remember what remains so frustratingly out of reach. None of it matters anymore, anyway. Ignorance is indeed bliss, as far as he is concerned. Money comes from somewhere, once in a while, and he ferrets it away beneath his mattress, paying out only the barest minimum required to keep himself alive, saving the rest. For what? He can't remember, but he thinks it must be important.  
  
Outside the square window too high to reach and too small to climb out, raindrops assault the glass; he listens, flat on his back in an unfamiliar bed (but what bed is not unfamiliar now?), and grows increasingly certain that the window will break and shower his face and body with tiny shards of glass, beaten into his skin by a merciless torrent of water. But he doesn't feel compelled to rise, or to explore these new surroundings. In his limited experience, everything comes to him, therefore it is unnecessary to ever seek anything out.  
  
The door slides open. He does not bother to sit up, or to greet his visitor. There was another one earlier, a young man. Henry pretended to be asleep. The man did not investigate, merely closed the door and walked away.   
  
He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes lightning will strike twice, no temptation of fate or Mother Nature intended.  
  
"Henry?" The voice. "Do you remember me?"  
  
His heart stops.  
  
"I know you're awake." He knows he has never been a good liar, or at least that he isn't one now. "Stop screwing around."  
  
He opens his eyes, but doesn't dare to look at her directly. That much, he remembers. "Nicolette." It comes to him from somewhere, the name to put with the face.  
  
"I need your help."  
  
"I can't help you. I can't help anyone."  
  
"Yes, you can," she says, coming closer to sit on the edge of the bed. She takes a deep breath. "Your memories aren't lost, Henry..."  
  
* * *  
  
Sark almost pities the poor doctor. An hour alone in a room with Irina Derevko and you would be lucky to emerge alive, much less with whatever secret you'd previously been committed to guarding with your life still in tact.   
  
The table in the kitchen is large enough that they could sit at opposite ends and nearly be in different rooms, but Sydney does not take a seat. Instead, she paces. Another hour passes.  
  
"I'm sure they'll be out soon," he finally says, rather nicely, meaning: sit down or I'll have a difficult time explaining to my employer why her daughter is suddenly legless.  
  
She glances at him as if she'd forgotten he was there, but does not stop.   
  
"She's extracting some relatively harmless information from him. The man won't be hurt." He really can't keep this up much longer.  
  
She makes a noise suspiciously close to a snort.  
  
"Please," he begins.  
  
"Look, I know he isn't a Rambaldi scholar."  
  
He does not speak. One of the things he likes or at least doesn't mind about her is that she will often reveal what is sought without being prompted to do so.  
  
"I can't explain why I lied. I mean, you would have to know, too, unless she didn't tell you why she sent you to pick him up. But since you're partners, of course she would tell you. It was stupid. I'm sorry."  
  
It is as if she has begun to relish the sound of her own voice, the way she goes on.   
  
"What I don't know if what she wants from him. I wonder if it's the same as what I wanted--what I want, I mean."  
  
"Probably so." He wonders if he could care less about holding up his end of this conversation. It seems unlikely.  
  
"Sydney, we aren't adversaries now," Irina chides brusquely, entering the kitchen. "We're collaborating."  
  
"Reluctantly," Sydney reminds her.  
  
Irina hands her a piece of paper with an address scrawled across it, as well as an open envelope which appears to contain a stack of train and airplane tickets. Sark observes with heightened interest. "That is where you'll go."  
  
"And when I get there?"  
  
"This is what you'll do." She holds out a vial of purple liquid, indicating that Sydney should take it from her. When she does not, Irina sets it on the kitchen table. "Your instructions are on the paper with the address."  
  
Sydney skims the instructions and reaches out for the vial. "I'm going alone?"   
  
"I think it's the only way, don't you?"  
  
"You trust me to bring him back to you?"  
  
"I just want you to bring him back. It doesn't matter where." With that, she leaves the room.  
  
Sydney reads the instructions a second time, and again.  
  
"You're really going alone, then?"  
  
"She thinks it's the only way."  
  
"It might--it might not be safe." Careful, now.   
  
A raised eyebrow, a bemused smile. "You aren't seriously suggesting I require protection."  
  
"Backup."  
  
"I think I'll be fine, thank you." She rises, then hesitates: "Seriously, though. Thanks for offering. If there's no ulterior motive, which I doubt, it was a nice thing to do."  
  
And then she's gone.   
  
Sark sleeps alone that night, as he does most nights, and resists the urge to cover his face with a pillow when the noises begin down the hall. Miratomi's speaking voice is as bizarrely off-key as his singing voice, it seems. He tunes out the disturbing sounds and closes his eyes, trying to locate a higher plane to which he can ascend for now. Instead, he sees her, traveling alone, arriving alone, taking them on alone, and is surprised to find that, ulterior motives aside, he almost feels guilty for letting her go.  
  
Well, you didn't really let her go, he points out. She would have gone alone whether you had wrapped your arms around her legs and demanded that she stay or whether you had seriously extended an offer to accompany her. You don't owe her anything, and you certainly don't owe Jack Bristow a damn thing either.  
  
He pictures her, alone in the traveling compartment her mother arranged for, smiling at the man who comes to check her ticket. It will be an empty gesture performed out of habit, but still she'll be smiling, despite the possibility that her mother has knowingly sent her into yet another deathtrap, despite the potential for her father to reject her as a spectre from a past he's become viciously devoted to forgetting.   
  
He almost feels sorry for her. Almost.  
  
An hour later, he finds himself working hard to prevent his mind from sketching a portrait of Irina's face when she discovers he's gone.   
  
She has the good doctor to play with now, anyway. 


	4. whisper

4. "I know it drives you crazy when I pretend you don't exist, when I'd like to lean in close and run my hands against your lips."  
  
He despises Spain. His expression betrays his displeasure as he stares out over the city from the balcony of his hotel room.   
  
"It *was* you," she says from behind him.  
  
"Yes." He closes the sliding door as he enters the room again.  
  
"I thought I saw you in the lobby, but then I thought, no, it couldn't be." She looks him over, as if preparing to be surprised. "She seemed pretty adamant about sending me here alone. Did she change her mind?"  
  
"No."   
  
"So, you..." She looks to him for guidance, to fill in the rest of the sentence, because she doesn't dare to make that leap.  
  
He tries not to roll his eyes. "I came here entirely of my own accord."   
  
"Because you love Spain."  
  
"Ah, yes, and who wouldn't?" He gestures toward the balcony, at the view others might conceivably enjoy. She will not detect the sarcasm, he is certain. To him, the country is tainted, infected by oppressive heat and unpleasant memories of missions past. If he disliked Jack Bristow before, he certainly hates him now, for choosing this place to settle.  
  
He hopes she won't directly ask why he's come; he doesn't have an answer prepared, and the truth isn't worth mentioning. She wouldn't believe concern for her welfare as an excuse. More likely, she would propose an alternate explanation: attempting to prove that he was more than her mother's errand boy, he had rebelled in the safest way possible. He left without actually leaving.  
  
Thankfully, she sidesteps the subject for now. "I don't need protection from my own father."  
  
"I know."  
  
"He hasn't turned. He has a plan."  
  
"Who," he inquires delicately, "are you trying to convince?"  
  
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "I'm just telling you, this isn't going to go down like you think it is. I know my father. He wouldn't do this if he didn't have a plan."  
  
"He thought you were dead."  
  
"And whose fault is that?"  
  
Later he will commend himself on his tremendous ability for self-control. She seems to expect a response; despite his increasing pulse rate and the adrenaline that begins to sting his skin from the inside, he manages to say quite calmly, "There is little to be gained by placing blame now, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
She seems puzzled. Of course she would be. It is easy to forget that she didn't know of the connection between the woman she killed and the man she's facing now. Forgiveness has never been easy for him; instead, he has found it more effective to simply sever the wounded limb, slice away the infected sore.   
  
So he takes a deep breath, and tries again. "Shall we go tonight, or tomorrow morning?"  
  
"In the morning. This won't be a surprise attack. It won't have to be."  
  
She sounds so certain, he hates to destroy her illusion. He decides against voicing his skepticism, for now; it's Jack Bristow's job to disappoint her, not his.  
  
* * *  
  
The last thing she needs is an early-morning hangover, but that doesn't stop her from investigating her options. She's interrupted by the phone.  
  
"Sydney."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Is Mr. Sark there with you?"   
  
"Yes. I mean, no. Not with me right this second, but, yes, he's here. In the hotel."  
  
"I figured as much."  
  
"I assumed you had changed your mind."  
  
"Not exactly. Listen, the reason I called, it's about the instructions I gave you."  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"They're not right. Your assignment has changed--"  
  
"What do you mean, 'They're not right'? Did you plan--"  
  
"The doctor apparently wasn't thinking clearly when he laid out the steps. He left out some critical information; therefore, your assignment is now to bring your father back here."  
  
"Without sedating him?"  
  
"Without sedating him."  
  
"All right." She swallows hard; she has only been practicing the act on Sark. "It wouldn't have been necessary, anyway. Why do you need him?"  
  
"Sydney, your father has been subject to some horrible things under Sloane's supervision. His health will need to be restored. I've collected the information necessary to accomplish that. Just bring him to me."  
  
Sydney does not respond.  
  
"It's good Mr. Sark is there," Irina observes. "It will be important for you to be prepared."  
  
* * *  
  
"You knew," she accuses, and he immediately regrets opening the door.  
  
"You'll have to be more explicit."  
  
"You knew she would call. You knew the plan would change."  
  
"I can honestly swear to you, I didn't know."  
  
"That has to be why you followed me here, to make sure I'd go through with it. I can't believe I ever thought--"  
  
He places his hands on her shoulders; she shudders, but doesn't move away. "Honestly. I came because I knew you would need more assistance than you would be willing to accept."  
  
Her voice is low. "Maybe you're why the plan changed."  
  
He backs off, puts some distance between them. "Maybe," he agrees. "It doesn't matter now. I'm here. We'll do what she says. She must have a good reason for--"  
  
"It's just that it really bothers me," she begins, "Losing control, being forced to do what I'm told by someone who has no authority over me. Especially now, after everything that's happened."   
  
And she's coming closer, and he thinks he knows what must be coming next. Still, he makes no move to stop it from happening, even though he's already counting the reasons why he should do just that. He ceases counting after ten.  
  
"It probably doesn't bother you, though, does it? I mean, you must be used to this."  
  
Her mouth approaches his, and he leans away to avoid the impending contact, being suddenly overtaken by an urge to do the right thing, for once. It's a useless gesture. That wasn't what she wanted anyway.  
  
"You probably even like it," she finishes.  
  
He can feel her breath against the inside of his ear; she's whispering furiously now, and he can't make out the words. They all blur together in one long hiss, but soon the sounds begin to make sense--except they don't, because none of this does.  
  
He thinks he detects alcohol on her breath, and finally feels a chivalrous impulse to put a stop to this. But she isn't the one being taken advantage of, and nothing's even happened. Yet. He is distinctly uncomfortable, but he is compelled to stay in place, to find out how this will end.  
  
Despite the best efforts of his mind to maintain control, his body soon responds, propelling itself into action. Her fingers press against his lips, and when they finally part involuntarily, he can feel her teeth pressing into his ear as she smiles.   
  
She steps backward, severing contact, then turns on her heel and walks away. "Get some sleep, Sark," she tosses over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow morning, bright and early."  
  
She's just like her mother, after all. 


	5. all wrong

5. "And when she laughs I travel back in time, something flips the switch and I collapse inside. It's all wrong."  
  
Her lips are sealed the next morning when they meet again, but he notices they are bare and swollen and suspects that they taste of salt and limes. She is oddly devoid of disguises this morning. Perhaps she intends to remind her father of a time before all of this began, if such a time ever really existed. He doesn't pretend to understand.  
  
He greets her amiably, keeping his voice low although there is no one else to be found in the lobby at this unspeakably early hour. "Are you ready?"  
  
His perceived sensitivity to her presumed condition seems to soften her slightly; she does not offer a biting remark or aim a surreptitious glare in his direction.   
  
"Will you drive?" she asks instead, without looking directly at him.  
  
He tries not to smile as he takes the keys from her outstretched hand.  
  
****  
  
In the car, they don't speak until he kills the engine in front of the address Irina provided. Then he says: "You should be careful. This won't be what you expect."  
  
"I know my father," she reiterates, then pauses. "Look, about what happened last night, I--"  
  
"Are you ready?" he asks again. He won't give her the pleasure, muted as it may be by traces of guilt, of discovering that he was actually affected by what transpired--or didn't--between them. Not that he was, of course. No.  
  
She nods.  
  
He takes a deep breath; he doesn't have to issue this warning, but he feels compelled to do it anyway. "You really should try to prepare yourself for the man you'll meet in there. He won't be the same man you knew before."  
  
She closes her eyes and shakes her head firmly, but after a moment she says, "I know." Another hesitation. "Thank you."   
  
He does not ask for further clarification.  
  
She leaves without another word or a glance behind her.   
  
And so he waits.  
  
* * *  
  
Sydney does not want to see what is unfolding before her. Convinced her bleary eyes are playing tricks on her disoriented mind, she looks away, then back again, hoping that the figures will have rearranged themselves into more pleasing positions.  
  
It doesn't work.  
  
There he is, her father, presumably enjoying his breakfast at an outdoor table. He is reading the newspaper. Behind him, Sloane stands, staring into the distance, his hands on her father's shoulders.  
  
Well, she can't approach him with Sloane right there, obviously. She crouches behind a column and considers her next move.  
  
Miraculously, a phone rings inside the house, and Sloane leaves to answer it. Sydney remembers a set of numbers printed on the page with this address; but that would mean Sark was observing from somewhere close by, which of course he would not be. She is also reluctant to assume that despite all his warnings to be careful, he would really give a damn about whether her father decided to put an end to her misery or not. He probably had his orders to return at least her father to Derevko in tact, regardless of whether or not she was successful at persuading him to come home without a fight.  
  
But there would be no resistance, of course.   
  
"Dad?" She steps forward, into the light.  
  
She wonders if she should be pleased that he still cares, as she watches the color drain from his face.  
  
"They told me you were dead."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
He stares, and she takes the opportunity to scan his eyes for a sign that her father no longer resides in this body, as she's been repeatedly informed. She finds none; they must have been mistaken. Finally, he rises and pulls her into a long, tight hug. "I'm so glad you're here," he whispers into her hair.   
  
"Come home with me," she says.   
  
He backs away like she's burned him. "No." His voice turns raspy, hollow, as if she's said the one thing she really shouldn't have. "Stay."  
  
"I can't." She tries to sound apologetic.  
  
And now, suddenly, he's colder. "Who sent you?"  
  
"I wasn't sent by anyone."  
  
"Bullshit, Sydney. No one knows where we are."  
  
She shudders inside at his use of 'we.' "She knows," she admits.  
  
"Derevko. Who else?"  
  
"I'm not working for her. God, I would never." She looks away. "Come home with me."  
  
"Stay."  
  
"With Sloane?" She bites back a laugh. "I don't think so."  
  
"There's a lot you don't understand."  
  
She tries again. "Please."   
  
He looks like he's about to reiterate his inability or lack of desire to return with her, but instead he closes up the newspaper very slowly. She glances toward the door; Sloane will be back soon. "All right," he relents. "On one condition."  
  
"Anything," she says.   
  
* * *  
  
Only later does she realize that it should have been more difficult to convince him to come home, and that it should have taken more effort to separate him from Sloane. As it was, he merely went inside, packed a bag, and met Sydney at the car. She did not ask whether he bid Sloane farewell or if this escape was intended to be covert.  
  
She did not ask whether it could really be counted as an escape at all.   
  
He is displeased to learn that Sark has accompanied her, and she would try to explain his presence if she could find words that would make it all make sense. She can't, so she doesn't. He says, "Let me guess; he's not working for Derevko, either." But he doesn't quite sound angry, nor does he make a move to break free from the moving vehicle.  
  
She sighs. "It's complicated."  
  
"Just make sure he doesn't interfere." With that, Jack stares out the window and does not speak to either of them again for some time.   
  
If Sark is curious, he keeps his mouth shut. He is nothing if not patient.  
  
* * *  
  
It is not the first question he asks when they are alone.  
  
Jack has fallen asleep, or is pretending; either way, they'll keep their voices down and their words to a minimum, anyway.   
  
She sits alone, far from her father, staring at her hands. He approaches. "It seems you were right."  
  
She looks up, startled by his sudden presence before her, and nods.  
  
"You wouldn't mind if I--" He turns away. "No."   
  
She can tell by the way he pauses in position that he's expecting her to say what she says next: "No, what?"  
  
He leans in close, talking fast. "You wouldn't mind if I checked for something, would you?"   
  
"You're not serious," she hisses into his ear.  
  
"You're right. I shouldn't have asked." He backs off.  
  
  
  
She grabs his sleeve, pulls him closer again. "You won't find anything. He's on the level."  
  
His smile reads: I seriously fucking doubt that, princess, and just like that, she hates him all over again.   
  
She devotes her energy to keeping her body perfectly rigid as he clumsily imitates her father's earlier embrace. (How? Did he see them, or is he guessing?) She can feel his fingers pressing into her skin below her shoulders, beneath her collar. As her mind begins to race, leaping to conclusions, then leaping with equal agility into rationalizations, her body softens. He pulls away, not a little surprised, but works not to let it show. He clears his throat and, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Jack's supposedly sleeping form, pushes a small, round object into her hand.  
  
She closes her fist around it without bothering to look.   
  
"I'm sorry," she starts.  
  
And he wants to say, "don't be," but he doesn't, because that way perhaps he can pretend she's asking forgiveness for something she doesn't quite understand she did.  
  
So he nods like it's nothing.  
  
She hesitates. "And, look, about last night--"  
  
And maybe it's sheer proximity and boredom or heat-induced delusion, but he thinks he must have whispered "do it again."  
  
Because she almost does.   
  
There would likely have been less anger this time, and more reciprocation. With his eyes closed, he could even have pretended they aren't where they are. Still, when she abruptly steps back, she looks as horrified as he feels.  
  
But she doesn't protest when he kisses her because he can, and it's in that moment he realizes what a master she must be; any questions he might have had regarding the nature of what exactly it was he wasn't supposed to interfere with simply drift away, utterly vaporized.   
  
He would regret this later, certainly. 


	6. pretty face

6. "Perfect place, pretty face, nice place for a rattlesnake."  
  
At one point during the summer after he first met Irina, Sark had been stricken by a case of heatstroke which resulted in severe headaches and stomachaches. In the evening, she would sit by his bedside, occasionally wiping his brow--a useless gesture that nonetheless provided some comfort. Now he is surprised to recall the sympathy she offered; it seems uncharacteristically indulgent. Knowing her as he does now, it seems she would have been more likely to tell him, on the first night, "You must get well," and expect him to promptly do so. After all, he was no longer a child, no longer expected to be without control over his body or his mind.   
  
(Perhaps she simply hadn't felt comfortable around him yet; hadn't been able to trust that he would follow her order, if such a command were issued. Perhaps she'd been afraid for his apparently fragile health, cursing her impulsive decision to bring him into a climate so different from that in which he had lived his entire life. He remembers that, once in a while, he would drift into consciousness during the night and hear her telling him to stay, that the future held so much for them together if he would only stay... unless it was delirium.)  
  
How unthinkable it had seemed then that the slightest pressure from her fingers, or those of the rather ineffectual doctor she'd called in, could cause him so much physical pain, yet the fingers in question would feel nothing out of the ordinary. He wished he could somehow pass the sensation through his skin into their hands, allow them to understand what was happening inside. All he could do was cry out, which he hated, and which might have been a lie anyway, for all anyone knew.  
  
In fact, it occurred to him rather suddenly one lazy afternoon during which he could not stay asleep a second longer, the only evidence anyone had that he was ill came from his own testimony. And when he could no longer stand sympathy, he told both Irina and the doctor he was fine, and never complained again. If she'd known he was lying, which it seemed now she must have, at least she would no longer press the issue.  
  
It wasn't the first secret he'd ever kept only for himself, but the lesson learned was valuable.   
  
So if he is feeling anything for Sydney now beyond pity, certainly, no one needs to know.  
  
****  
  
He supposes he should have realized when Sydney did not draw back in horror after he initiated such intimate contact, when she instead responded in kind, that she was up to something. In his experience, women nearly always had a hidden agenda. He will chastise himself for falling for the charade. But that will not happen until some time later.  
  
In the car, he is assigned driving duty once more; this time, Sydney and her father sit together in the backseat. He doesn't mind. This gives him the opportunity to pretend he is alone, forget all that has occurred and all that likely will occur once they reach their destination. The hour is late and the road is unlit; the headlights of a car behind him illuminate the dust and dirt that line both sides of the pavement, creating a surreal effect with the contrast between sudden light and dark. After he pulls to the side for a moment to allow the impatient driver to pass, the road reflects nothing. The only sound for miles is that of his own tires rolling against gravel. If he were inclined to believe in omens, he might have turned around right then, headed back for the safety of the nearest town: bright lights, city sounds, crowds in which to disappear. But he isn't, so he presses on, obliviously.  
  
Sydney is not pleased, but Bristow seems unfazed when Sark points out that he must be sedated before entering the house. "It's for your own good, I assure you," he says, and those are the first words that have been spoken since his conversation with Sydney on the airplane. Bristow does not respond, merely presents an arm for the needle. Sydney glares, as if he has betrayed her personally by concealing this; perhaps he has. It is of little consequence.  
  
Irina is pleased when he presents Jack and Sydney--the Bristow family, sort of, together again. He's suddenly struck by a sour mood, and retreats immediately to bed after securing Bristow in a holding cell located in the basement. He has not been in his room for long before his rest is disrupted.  
  
"She must be secured as well," Irina points out.  
  
Why don't you do it? he does not ask.  
  
"If I enter her quarters, she will be immediately suspicious," she answers. "But I sense that you and she have formed a bond somehow."  
  
He remains silent, unsure whether to deny any truth that might exist in her assessment. If he does, she will surely detect his dishonesty. However, if he admits it, that will be a sign of weakness as well as highly inappropriate; it might also place Sydney in danger due to her new status as a distraction. (Like Allison, an unwelcome voice interjects.) If he does neither and simply apologizes for leaving without permission, he might as well be admitting it's true, only in an even more cowardly manner. Silence seems preferable; she is quite skilled at carrying on a conversation without a willing partner.  
  
"I'm glad you accompanied her to Spain," she says gently. "It was a good instinct on your part, I think."  
  
"I'll sedate her and place her downstairs with him, then."  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Jack is not the man he used to be. I don't trust him with her." She pauses. "Rather, I don't trust them together."  
  
"What do you suggest, then?"  
  
"I want you to stay with her tonight. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere or try anything."  
  
All right, so either she knows and this is a game, he surmises, or she really doesn't know and this is just another task.  
  
She smiles. "I trust you, of course."  
  
And so the game is on. 


	7. cure for pain

7. "I propose a toast to my self control, you see it crawling helpless on the floor. Someday there'll be a cure for pain; that's the day I throw my drugs away."  
  
"I didn't see the doctor," Sydney says.  
  
"Excuse me?" He closes the door behind him as he enters.  
  
"Dr. Miratomi. The reason I'm here, sort of. Where is he?"  
  
"Don't know," he shrugs. "She's probably finished with him now." She's probably picking bits of his flesh out from between her teeth, he doesn't add.  
  
"Is he still alive?"  
  
"He might be. What's your interest?"  
  
"Just curious." She stretches out on the bed, eyeing him as he keeps his distance, lingering by the door. "I'd be interested in finding out the rest of his story, you know? The part his files don't say, like why he disappeared all those years ago, why she wanted him."  
  
He doesn't respond; it's not a subject he finds particularly compelling.  
  
"You're here to make sure I don't try to escape." She smiles, and for a second he almost wishes her assessment wasn't accurate.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I'm the wrong person to ask."  
  
"Of course. I forgot." Another smile. "For a second there, Sark, I almost thought you had a mind of your own."  
  
He doesn't bother to respond; irritation rises once more, but he's not so blinded by it that he forgets the potential consequences of mouthing off to the boss's daughter.   
  
"Where does she think I'm going to go, I wonder? And why is it so important that I stay?" She's fishing, and it amuses him, only increasing his commitment to keeping her in the dark.  
  
In lieu of responding, he crosses the room and opens the window. "How can you stand it in here like that?" he mutters, leaning outside, looking down.  
  
And suddenly she's standing right behind him, asking one more question: "If the doctor were still alive, where would she be keeping him?"  
  
"I'm not going to tell you where your father is," he says without turning around.  
  
Now her hand is on his shoulder as she draws even closer, whispering, "I know."  
  
If he is confused when he faces her, the feeling isn't diminished as she kisses him hard, until he almost can't breathe. He does not resist, but he doesn't push it, either, keeping his hands still; he pretends that they are still on the airplane, with her sleeping father a few feet away. Considering the implications of the truth--that no one's watching, save for perhaps a half-asleep security guard, and where she's concerned he would have much more creative freedom than he's had in a while with a woman--would be entirely too dangerous.   
  
"I know you're not going to tell me," she continues, after he finally pulls back.   
  
He moves in once more, but she stops him, puts a finger to his lips, and says:  
  
"I want you to show me."  
  
  
  
"You're insane," he laughs, as if this is an epiphany. It is her turn to step away.  
  
"Wouldn't you like to be free?"  
  
She is surprised by the vehemence of his response. "What?"  
  
"Of her. Of this. Wouldn't you like a chance to just start over?"  
  
His eyes widen in sudden recognition. "What's going to happen, Sydney?"  
  
She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. That's the point."  
  
"What has time done to you?" he asks.   
  
"Not 'time,'" she corrects. "Derevko. And you should know as well as anyone. Hasn't she done it to you enough times by now?"  
  
He swallows what he could have said, and tries again: "She's tried to protect you."  
  
"She took away everything I had, in the name of some ridiculous Rambaldi prophecy. My father, Will, Francie, Vaughn-"  
  
What happened to Francie, Sydney? he wants to ask, force her to confess. Instead he moves to a slightly safer subject: "What happened to Agent Vaughn?"  
  
"Nothing. He's fine."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"He thought I was dead, so to soothe his grief, he reunited with his former girlfriend. A civilian." She shakes her head. "She'll never know the truth. She'll be safe. I guess that's why."  
  
"You can't blame her for--"  
  
"Yes, I can," she interrupts, keeping her voice low. "I can blame a lot of things on that woman, and my boyfriend deserting me is probably the least of them."  
  
"Tell me what's going to happen."  
  
She takes a deep breath and regards him curiously, like she's trying to figure out whether she's successfully convinced him or not. Maybe this final confession will finish him off. "My father would only come back on one condition," she begins.  
  
"For Christ's sake, she brought him here to help him." He starts to leave, but she grabs his arm.  
  
"Stay," she almost pleads. "I never believed it before, but you came to Spain just to protect me. Based on her reaction, it's safe to assume she had no idea." She pauses. "I never believed it before, but I think you really are more than this. Or you could be. Don't you want to find out?"  
  
He stares at her for a long time before responding.  
  
"No. I can't. I'm not. I'm sorry."  
  
****  
  
He doesn't bother to secure her in her guest room before going down to ensure that Jack is still in place. She would appreciate this gesture if she could be convinced that it was motivated by anything but carelessness. She wants to ask why it matters, why he's reacting this way, when it finally makes sense in her head: Derevko is to Sark as Jack is to her, even more so now.   
  
Therefore, she supposes she can't blame him for trying.  
  
She follows him down to her father's holding cell, and if he notices that she's on his trail, he doesn't say anything or even turn around.  
  
"Shit," he breathes.  
  
Neither of them expected this.  
  
A technician lies dead in the outer doorway. Advancing further into the room reveals that inside the cell, a syringe--presumably once filled by the formula Miratomi provided--is now broken and bleeding on the floor.   
  
Her father has Derevko in a defenseless position on the cot she'd provided him for rest. Pinned beneath him, she doesn't notice that Sark and Sydney have entered the outer room, but Jack does.  
  
"You were supposed to distract him," Jack growls, glaring at them through the glass.  
  
"I--I couldn't--"  
  
"Get him out of here!"  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," Sark says, and she imagines it will only be a matter of time before they're trading hostages.  
  
"How did he know?" Jack asks suddenly, turning his gaze on Sydney again.  
  
Derevko takes the opportunity to free herself by force (and Sydney will blame herself for this later), leaving him alone on the floor. She's without a weapon, though, probably not by choice.   
  
Sydney scans the cell for signs of one that was involuntarily discarded, but is interrupted by her father, issuing his final command:   
  
"Take him with you and get out of here, Sydney," he says, calmer this time, facing down Derevko from opposite sides of the cell now. "This will all be over soon enough."  
  
She looks at Sark, who is frozen in position; if he interferes, it could set her father off, and if he doesn't--well, he will. That much is clear.   
  
Her own brain feels as though someone has poured molasses into its gears. She can't form the words to make this stop--because it must end with words, not with actions, if only due to her inability to choose a side. She can vaguely discern two relevant options: to either put an end to this by convincing her father to stop now, or to try once again to persuade Sark to follow her out and let it happen. Before she's able to make a decision, Sark does. He grabs her roughly by the shoulders and shoves her outside, but can't close the door due to the body that's in his way.   
  
She does not follow him back inside.  
  
Everything will be okay, she repeats. Everything will be okay.   
  
Every other word she's ever known seems to have deserted her as the blood begins to pound so hard in her ears that she can't hear anything else, and maybe that's for the best.  
  
****  
  
Sark can tell she knows by looking at him how to conclude the story when she tells it later.   
  
He wants to say: I didn't want it to end this way. All he can offer instead is, "I'm sorry."  
  
"Why?"  
  
He looks confused.   
  
Her eyes become steadily brighter as she asks, "Why couldn't you have just agreed to come with me when I asked you?"   
  
A pause while she waits, but he's at a loss for an answer that won't gut her. He says, "Look, I know you don't understand--"  
  
"Why did you have to stay?"  
  
"Little by little, Sloane made your father forget anything like love he ever felt for you. He would have used your father to get to you, and that man in there would have been a willing accomplice at this point." He hesitates. "Believe me, Sydney." Please?  
  
She ignores him and asks again: "Why did you stay?"  
  
He swallows hard, closes his eyes, tries to explain softly. "Time and time again, that woman has saved my life."  
  
She stares him down coldly, like none of what has happened between them ever mattered to her.   
  
"And now you've taken what was left of mine."  
  
With that, she's gone, up the stairs, out the door. He makes no effort to follow her.   
  
What else is there to say? 


	8. pretty face redux

8. "Perfect place, out of face, a good day to make a mistake."  
  
He has always enjoyed driving. There's the visceral appeal, of course, the physical feeling of being propelled forward (and backward, and sometimes in circles) through direct action, the simplicity of which is also attractive. Foot meets pedal, speed increases. Simple. Beyond that, there is the illusion of control afforded to him when he is in the driver's seat, although both he and his employer are well aware that he will not deviate from the expected course. This has been his favorite assigned duty since he was old enough to get behind the wheel--a little before then, actually.   
  
He is not driving now.  
  
He is, of course, quite aware of the severity of the situation, and yet it proves impossible to resist glancing at the speedometer, noting the way the wheel twitches uncertainly beneath her fingers. He can't help correcting her, mentally, making a list of the things he would do differently. It's clear that after all the years, the act of driving makes her nervous; this might just be the first time he's seen her lose her cool. Even in the beginning, she always had a driver.  
  
This must be the first time she's cared enough about something to do the job herself.  
  
He's not exactly sure how he feels about that.  
  
With Jack Bristow out of the picture, there is the distinct possibility that she will be able to convince her daughter to join her, after she takes the opportunity to eliminate the man who killed Bristow. Not the one who actually killed him (that would be easy enough), but the one who first murdered the real Bristow. It seems unlikely, perhaps, considering the nature of their relationship and the sequence of recent events, but it has been his experience that Irina Derevko typically has little trouble persuading the once (twice, three times) betrayed to return to her side.  
  
And so, accepting Sydney's eventual agreement as a foregone conclusion, once the two unite against the same cause, the consequences might be devastating. Not just for the world at large, or for those who would stand in their way, but for Sark himself. Her second in command, her favorite lieutenant, usurped by someone who doesn't even believe in the objectives Irina built his life around. On the other hand, with Sydney's assistance, those objectives might become considerably easier to achieve.  
  
He resolves to stop thinking about things that haven't happened yet.  
  
After all, there is always the chance that when they get where they are going, Sydney will kill him, thus mercifully ending his anxiety.  
  
Aside from joining forces with her mother, which might prove too great a leap of faith for even Sydney to take, that's really the only way this could end.   
  
The prospect doesn't bother him as much as it probably should.  
  
* * *  
  
The road seems to stretch on forever. It's dark now, and the weak headlights of the car he arranged at the last minute provide little illumination down the barely paved path. This is not the route he would have elected to take, had he been driving, which he is not. He glances over at her; it's nearly impossible to make out her features. She is oblivious, intent on reaching their destination, and she does not tell him to either stop staring or speak, so he does neither.  
  
Therefore, he does not see it coming.  
  
Later he will wonder about her excuse.  
  
* * *  
  
The tires lay flat in the center of the road, scattered like severed limbs on a battlefield. She is driving too fast to stop in time. Instead, she swerves. The car careens off the road, over the shoulder, headfirst into the groove paralleling the pathetic pavement. His instinct is to grab the wheel, take control of what is rightfully his, but it is too late. A vehicle rests in the ditch, three of four tires missing.   
  
The windshield implodes, separating into larger pieces. Many of those on the driver's side shatter from the force of the impact. Instinctively, he closes his eyes. The dashboard is jarred forward, into his lap. The radio is ejected from its slot, suspended by a couple of slim wires.   
  
When the debris settles, he opens his eyes slowly. No glass--that's a relief.  
  
After ascertaining his own safety, he finally turns to her, dreading the sight.  
  
She is not speaking; she is not unconscious. He extricates himself from the passenger seat and leans gingerly over her, careful not to touch, releasing her seat belt. No response.   
  
Up close, it is easier to see. Her hair sparkles with shards of glass, and her eyes are half-open and unfocused.   
  
"Are you going to be all right?" he whispers, as if someone might overhear.  
  
She looks over at him--a good sign, he thinks--and says, "I'm sorry."  
  
(It might be the first time she's ever said that to him.)  
  
He nods curtly: now is not the time. "What about a hospital?" he asks, still poised above her. "I could--"  
  
"No," she says.   
  
"But you're--"  
  
She begins to cough, and he involuntarily pictures the effect of bits of glass inside her throat. She stretches out a hand to touch the side of his face, lightly, and the surface of her palm glitters; he winces, either from the anticipation of her touch or from the idea of the glass scratching his own skin.   
  
So this is goodbye; it can't be, but it is. He tries to retain his composure as he presses his mouth into her cheek, against her lips. She does not push him away.  
  
Instead she allows his hands to wander, as if she is aware that he is attempting to burn this into his memory. Even in this vulnerable position, she holds all the authority. These thoughts float through his mind, but this is not something he can accept, because this is not real. Her story does not end on the side of the road, not unless she planned it that way. But this could not have been planned. (Could it? He almost hopes she is keeping her true intentions a secret.)  
  
His exploration can only go so far before he must stop, afraid of embedding shards further into her skin, or his own.  
  
"There's a kit in the glove box," she says. "It's for Sydney. Get it. Take it. Then go."   
  
"I can't just leave you here. This is not how--"  
  
"Go," she repeats, stronger this time, and he protests no further before beginning his journey as a hitchhiker.  
  
A mile away, he would swear he can still hear her coughing, alone in the darkness.  
  
He does not look back.  
  
A pick-up truck slows and he climbs into the back, disregarding the layer of dirt inside the bed.  
  
He presses his back against the back window of the cab and draws his knees to his chest.   
  
This changes everything. 


	9. erase a pretty face

9. "Each time and I do it now - fast forward to a better spot."  
  
And if the words he had wanted to hear were not the words she said, perhaps now that no one will be able to contradict his own retelling of events, he can turn the right phrases for her and read between the lines. "I'm sorry," she said, for stealing time from your life, for locking you in your room the second your loyalty appeared to wane. For expecting you to come back, and knowing that you would; for not apologizing sooner. For ensuring that you would not be able to save the girl who once seemed to be your last chance. "I'm sorry," she said, and it might be the only confession she could have made in her last moment that he would have believed.  
  
He turns the moment over and over in his head as the truck rattles over every single bump in the poor pavement below. Her controlled, lurching last gasps; the fear (the hope?) that every touch could drive the glass further into her skin, the way she'd let it happen. This could not have been an accident, not any part of it--not her own death, finally, nor his survival. A spontaneous decision, an impulse motivated by grief? Clearly she was not above such actions, since all it had taken to commit him to prison was the slightest hint that one day he might leave her of his own volition, rather than hers.   
  
Did she really love Bristow enough to grieve, or were the inevitable consequences of his death what she dreaded: her daughter's reaction, or the reinvigorated search for her that would begin once the demise of Bristow was discovered by the government he'd served? If everything she had done was for the purpose of guiding Sydney toward this ridiculous "destiny," perhaps what came next would be the unleashing of her daughter's foretold unseen fury. Maybe she didn't want to stick around to watch Sydney's destruction.  
  
Or maybe she did it because she'd finally been convinced of his allegiance. Maybe she did it to set him free.  
  
Still, they will be coming up on the city soon. He knows he must decide whether to carry out Irina's final order or to let it go, disappear, find a new employer to serve, go into business for himself. The opportunities for him now, outside this world, seem virtually endless.  
  
At the city limit sign, he knocks on the back window of the truck's cab. The driver slows, slightly, and Sark jumps from the back. He lands on his feet.  
  
* * *  
  
When he finds her it is impossible to determine how long she has been crouched against the wall in the same position, but the body on the floor five feet away from her looks to have been there for quite some time. His first reaction is simply awe. How is this possible? How could she have done it? How can those three figures be gone--presuming, of course, that any of them actually are?  
  
It is not until she lets out a long, low moan that he remembers the proper reaction.  
  
"Sydney?" he asks, cautiously.  
  
She looks up, and her eyes refuse to focus, mirroring the look in Irina's eyes before he left her alone. It is this disturbing similarity that leads him to the first, urgent question; wondering why he should care about the answer seems beside the point now. "Are you all right?" Pause. Rephrase. "Are you injured?"  
  
Sydney doesn't answer. Instead, she glances over at Sloane. He supposes this must be her response, for lack of a more explicit explanation, so he moves on. "He's dead?"  
  
"Yes," she finally says.  
  
"Okay. Let's go."  
  
He lifts her to her feet, and they stumble toward the door.  
  
* * *  
  
"I know it's a lot to ask," he says, kneeling beside her in Sloane's driveway, where her legs have abruptly crumpled beneath her. "But I need you to trust me right now."  
  
Her eyes don't flash. She doesn't hiss accusations into his ear. He considers this a good sign, unless it simply means she doesn't recognize him.  
  
So he leans in, slowly, as if to kiss her, but if that is what she is expecting, she is mistaken; he can't, not ever again, not with Irina's blood lingering in his mouth, not with her father's blood on his hands and his lover's blood forever staining her own. Their past, such as it has been, is best recollected now as a series of misguided maneuvers and stupid mistakes, never again to be repeated.   
  
She doesn't flinch when the needle pierces her skin, and it is only then that he realizes: the Sydney with whom he was once acquainted, however superficially, is already gone. It's a rationalization for what he is about to do, of course, but it doesn't seem false. She's not there.  
  
He retreats, waits for his action to have a reaction. Her face doesn't change.  
  
After she loses consciousness, finally, he carries her to Sloane's car. He scrawls a note and tucks it into her hand.   
  
That is the last time he ever sees Sydney Bristow.  
  
* * *  
  
She wakes up a few hours later, in a panic, adrenaline shooting through her limbs.   
  
She takes a deep breath. She can't remember why she's afraid.  
  
There is a folded square of paper clenched in her fist. She opens it and reads:  
  
"Sydney, this is a gift. My advice to you is this: use it wisely. Don't look for answers. Trust me."  
  
So, her name is Sydney. Clue number one. A wallet lies beside her on the seat. She checks it for identification, but it has been emptied of everything but some money. Enough to get her where she's going.  
  
Wherever that is.  
  
The keys to the car she's in (hers?) rest on the passenger seat as well. She starts the car and puts it into drive.   
  
* * *  
  
It's funny, the things she remembers, the names she hasn't forgotten. Not her own--that one would have been gone, if not for her mysterious benefactor. No, these are names like Browning, Frost, Byron, Bishop. Henry Ford, Ronald Reagan, Roosevelt, Kennedy.   
  
These are the things she knows, because these are things that are known. The only facts missing from her knowledge store are those directly related to her former identity. Her parents, for example. If she's closer to 30 than 20, they must be closer to 50 than 40. Are they still alive, out there, somewhere, wondering about her? Or was she orphaned at birth?  
  
When she is first spoken to since the event, it is at the hotel where she registers for an evening while she tries to sort out where to go now, what to do. The man behind the counter speaks to her in Spanish, and she responds in kind. The phrases ring through her head, echo in a dozen different languages. But the language she speaks to herself most often seems to be English, and it is accentless, so she must be American (1492, Columbus). Therefore, she should return to America (Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria). No, too vague, too easy to get lost. Maybe she should stay where she is until the money runs out. After all, she speaks the language.   
  
The note said, "Don't look for answers."  
  
But her curiosity is her most defining characteristic at this point, perhaps the sole remnant of the woman she used to be.   
  
So she just can't resist the temptation. 


	10. below the sea

10. "Below the ocean, I got to live somewhere; maybe the graveyard, and maybe I don't care."  
  
He was tempted to turn Miratomi's wonderful, horrible formula on himself, but what would have been the point? Instead, he tries to enjoy his freedom. It doesn't work. He finds employment, here and there, but it's all small-time. They all know who he is, his name and his reputation, and so they keep a safe distance, which suits him fine. Now and then he wanders to Barcelona, looking for her in bars and alleyways. She's disappeared, and he can't help but wonder what became of her. Did she perish, or prosper? There'll be no telling now, and he'll only have himself to blame. Blame for what? He doesn't care. Why should he? He's happy for her. Wherever she is, living the way she must be has to be easier than remembering everything.   
  
He envies her.  
  
But not enough to give up what he knows; what good is redemption if you can't remember why you ever needed it? Better to work toward it with full knowledge of what you've done, if you feel the need to be redeemed. He doesn't, yet.  
  
And so he moves around, looking for guidance, old friends, new lovers, work, anything that might feel like home.  
  
Nothing ever does. Nothing ever will.  
  
* * *  
  
Whoever she once was, that person was exceptionally talented at covering her tracks. Either that, or someone did the track-covering for her, which is not a possibility she's prepared to consider. All she remembers about her old life comes in flashes: little twinges of unidentifiable emotion when strangers say certain words, gone so quickly that she cannot ever tie the symbols to what they must once have meant to her.  
  
Her mysterious benefactor neglected to think about one thing: it is impossible to define yourself without any sense of what came before this very moment. There are no footsteps to follow in, not even her own. She's drifting, wandering around the countryside, looking for familiar faces.  
  
It is on the day that this realization finally hits her, some time after the bestowal of the supposed gift, that she makes up her mind to stop wandering and find the person who thought she would appreciate this mystery.  
  
With that in mind, she packs up the possessions she's acquired since being set adrift, and heads back to Barcelona with the last of her money.  
  
Her benefactor will be there; she can't explain how she knows, but she really thinks she does.  
  
* * *  
  
She has been there for five days. However, in her haste to return, she neglected to consider that it just might be very difficult to locate someone when you have no idea who they are or what they look like. How old is he? I don't know. How tall is he? Can't say. Hair color, eye color, weight? No clue. Are you sure it's even a male you're looking for? Well, no.  
  
Frustrated, she sits on the curb, watching passerby. Maybe she'll know what she's looking for when she sees it. Maybe he (or she) will recognize her first.  
  
A tap on her shoulder. She turns around, ready. "Can you tell me how to get to--"  
  
"No," she says abruptly, turning back toward the street.   
  
"Sydney," a voice calls.  
  
She looks up. "Are you the one who--"   
  
"No." The woman extends a hand, pulling Sydney to her feet. "I've been searching for you for so long." She looks vaguely familiar.  
  
"You didn't do this--"  
  
"No, of course not." She embraces Sydney warmly, then pulls back, examining her fondly.  
  
"Who are you?" It is only then that she realizes: of course she looks familiar, she looks like me.  
  
"I'm your mother," she says. "I'm so glad I've finally found you." She wraps Sydney into a tight hug once more, and Sydney is so relieved that all this is over that she actually starts crying. "Shh," her mother says, patting her on the back. "I have so much to tell you. I'll explain everything. I promise."  
  
* * *  
  
He can't believe his luck; later he will suppose he should have known that nothing is ever attributable simply to luck, not in his life. There she is, walking alone, with a sense of purpose. She is not lost. Therefore, he hesitates to approach her, but in the end, curiosity wins.  
  
"Sydney," a voice says from behind her.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Do you remember me?"  
  
"No," she says slowly. "Should I?"  
  
"Probably. I'm the only link to your past you'll ever be able to find." He smiles, betraying his relief at finding her safe, after all this time.  
  
"But my mother is here with me," she says, uncomprehending, and his heart would break if he had one; she doesn't sound like herself anymore. Maybe it's simply the sort of change that comes with the leavening of guilt and remorse.   
  
"She can't be."  
  
"But she is."  
  
"You don't understand," he says urgently. "She's--"   
  
"Explain to me why I should believe you and not my own mother. I mean, she is my mother, isn't she?"  
  
"Well, I don't know--"  
  
"She's my mother, and I've never met you before," Sydney hisses at him, reluctant but willing to cause a scene right here on the sidewalk.  
  
"What has she told you?"   
  
"Oh," Sydney says. "Oh," and it's clear that a realization of some sort is dawning. "You're Sark."  
  
"Yes, and you're Sydney Bristow."  
  
Her brow wrinkles. "Bristow? No, that's not right--"  
  
"Of course not. I'm mistaken," he interrupts smoothly, as the genius of the plan dawns on him. "Derevko, then?"  
  
She nods.  
  
"Of course. You see, you and I didn't really know each other all that well, before."  
  
"She'd probably like to see you. She's spoken fondly of you," she adds, and from the look on her face he can tell that Irina's account and the reality of him don't quite match up, or maybe he just isn't what she pictured from whatever she's been told.  
  
"I don't think that would be such a good idea," he laughs.  
  
"No," she says decisively. "You must. We've been here in Madrid for a week, and have encountered no one who could help me fill in the missing pieces. You say we didn't know each other well, and yet you look so familiar to me. You must come with me--I know she'd like to see you, and I'd like to talk more."  
  
He is reluctant to comply, but this is unimportant; her will shall be done.  
  
* * *  
  
"Sark," Irina greets him, as if the circumstances are perfectly normal. Maybe they are, considering. He can't decide whether to be relieved or incensed.  
  
"I must say," he says carefully, "I'm surprised. The last time I saw you--"  
  
"I know," she replies, a hint of a warning creeping into her tone, as she throws a glance in Sydney's direction.  
  
"So, I'm surprised."  
  
"We have so much to talk about," Irina says, and whispers something to Sydney. She glances at the two of them, then smiles awkwardly, more like a 12-year-old than the Sydney he almost knew before. She leaves the room.  
  
He moves closer, lowers his voice: "This was your plan from the beginning, wasn't it?"  
  
"In essence, yes."  
  
"But why that charade on the side of the road? Why did you let me--"  
  
"It wasn't a charade. I honestly didn't plan for that." She shrugs. "And I was doing you a favor. I could never have gotten close enough to her to administer the--"  
  
He doesn't believe for a second that the scene on the roadside was accidental, but he lets it slide for now. "What made you so sure she wouldn't react the same to me as she would have to you?"  
  
She smiles. "The answer to that seems obvious."  
  
"I killed her father."  
  
She silences him with a look. "Not as far as she's concerned now."  
  
"So you're starting over. No interference. No bad memories. Just her gratitude to you for restoring her memories. It's ingenious, really. I'm quite impressed."  
  
"The only possible interference," she whispers, "is you."  
  
"I won't tell her," he says. "Why bother?"  
  
"Good."  
  
He reaches out to trace the line of the scar (one of many from that particular occasion, he will discover) that stretches across the left side of her jaw; she does not protest. "I really thought you were dead."  
  
"Things will never be exactly as they were," she says. "She must be protected."  
  
"From the truth," he finishes. "Until your ends are achieved, anyway. I presume your objectives remain the same."  
  
She withdraws, and a little thrill pulses through his veins, humming quietly. "If you object to this, please, don't feel obligated to stay."  
  
"I don't object." And, surprisingly enough, it's the truth.   
  
"Good," she repeats, smiling again.   
  
With that, he's almost able to forget everything she's done to him, or why he should be bothered about what she must have in store for Sydney.  
  
Almost.  
  
She kisses him, lightly, and it's close enough.  
  
In another dimension, somewhere, perhaps he's living happily ever after with Allison in a cottage by the sea; in yet another dimension, perhaps he and Sydney would have had a chance. The old Sydney wouldn't have wanted him. The new Sydney will never have a chance to want anything that isn't prescribed for her. He sympathizes. In this life, his fate would have played out exactly the same no matter what he'd stopped to do along the way.  
  
This is the life he lives, and at least now he knows it's better than the alternative.  
  
That was probably her plan all along, too.  
  
* * *  
  
the end 


End file.
